


The Coward and the Fraud

by CandlelightFool



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 18:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandlelightFool/pseuds/CandlelightFool
Summary: Just a talk at a bridge; nothing more, nothing less.
Relationships: Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov Grand Duchess of Russia/Gleb Vaganov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	The Coward and the Fraud

****The sudden wind whipped at her face and hair, forcing out a lone tear at the corner of her eye, and for a moment Anya could imagine herself caught in a moment of tragedy, had she not been barren of any surface of which self-pity could spark. 

The hour was late, the ballet must have ended already, even before Anya had returned to the hotel in a mad dash, but here she stood outside again already. Back into her old garb, warm and worn, without the distraction of jewels, all quickly shed like a dream that had only had ever been that. Her travel bag could have been light with only her clothes and the forged passport; but the music box, the dented old thing, she had packed despite herself. Without a second glance, she walked away from the hotel, it was for the better.

Dmitrii might have started the lie, unscrupulously and with such sincerity in his eyes, but Anya had feverishly fed the flame, first to stopper a guilt that had come close to drowning her, before allowing herself to latch onto a scrape of hope like someone starved. The combined encouragements of Vlad and Dmitrii had worn her down, but to float was to inevitably sink, she had known that. Easier it was to yell and blame than to consider herself the culprit in this farce, in which they had all played their role admirably.

The Parisian streets looked inviting, picturesque little cafes still open, candlelight flickering from the windows and street posts burning tirelessly, and for a winter night, it was far from cold. Sometimes the wind would sweep in, and play with the end of her scarf, and she would push her hands deeper into her pockets. And so, she meandered on, fast steps, jaw set, and head tilted in a way that invited no niceties. It had not come as a surprise to her when she found herself at the foot of the Pont Aleksander III bridge, for it was a journey she had undertaken before, and had been beautiful in its vast promise. To the middle, she went.

It was just a daring hop unto parapet, which was not high at all. With her arm safely curled around a decorative lamppost, she could admire the gentle light of the moon on the Seine, the brighter, playful lights along the river, the rows of houses with families, all safe and asleep. It stung and pierced through the veil of disconnect she had created, for there was not a house where she was welcomed, not here; and never more in Russia. 

While her feelings had been muted, her mind had been sharp and meticulous, and she had escaped the hotel like a thief in the night. Would they simply feel anger at finding her gone? Would Dmitrii be licking his wounds, and thinking good riddance? Would Vlad curse her name, despise his investment, and remember her without a smile on his jolly face? How heavy her heart was starting to feel now, and without any warning, she felt quite as alone and lost as during her days fresh out of the hospital. 

She had been weighing the matter of a shameful return, when footsteps approached, quick and resounding. From her perch, she looked back with just a hint of self-preservation.

But it was only Gleb, hastening towards her, imperious and with a purpose, yet he kept his distance when he saw her swaying so close to the edge.

A devil she knew.

“You’re too late,” she cried, trapped and wild. “Anastasia is dead.”

“Anya,” Gleb warned, eyeing her precarious position with a flash of alarm.

“It turns out, we were both chasing lies.”

“Speak plainly.”

Yet Anya felt herself unable to speak, her throat burning with unwanted tears.

“Words can wait,” Gleb allowed, but it was kind in words alone, for his face was severe and his tone brusque. “First, step down from there.”

“Why?”

“This is not a game!”

Anya sniffed, and looked down at the dark water. “Quite the contrary.”

Gleb stepped forward, carefully and controlled, and while Anya did not further acknowledge him, her hold on the cold metal did not waver either.

“You did not journey all this way just to drown!”

“That is not my intention,” Anya replied, almost amused, though a few tears had brushed her cheeks. “The view from this spot is lovely, that is all.”

By then, Gleb had made his way towards her, a solid presence at her side, and while he itched to drag her backwards to safety, back to him, he put his hands flat down on the stone railing instead.

“You don’t want to push me?” Anya inquired, in a mockery of playfulness.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I was on that train, as you may know,” Anya remarked, her voice catching. “An aristocrat was dragged off and shot for his trouble.”

Gleb’s hands tensed, briefly, but he kept his eyes on the river. 

“It put me in a state,” she continued. “But it at least it showed me your true colours. I was very naive in Russia, but no more.”

“Naive,” Gleb tested out without satisfaction. “Not a word I would use for a girl that travelled illegally to Paris, her sole object fooling an old exiled Dowager Queen. Might I suggest _underhanded _for future retellings?”

Anya smiled bitterly. “I was the fool.”

“We could discuss it at any other place of convenience,” Gleb offered, and he wondered at the play of circumstances that had left her pale and trembling before him, but he knew that it was nothing she would share with him. “Somewhere warm, without danger of a miss-step.”

“You suddenly seem to care.”

“I’ve always cared!” 

Anya leaned further away from him, her cheek resting on the lamp post.

“You could have told me anything in that office, Anya,” Gleb said, gentling his voice, like she was only that street-sweeper with the timid smile once more. “There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t have tried for you, but after that, it was out of my hands.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Duty send me after Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, it’s true. But it is not why I followed you here.”

He did not mention the royal carriage that had parked before the hotel some minutes after Anya had sprightly disappeared down the dark of an alley. Gleb had watched the vehicle, with thunder in his eyes, and had set chase for Anya soon after. No reason to muddy the waters, with conflicted confusion now apparent in her blue eyes, like a precious gift of deliverance. It did not take long for her face to close off again, expressive as it was, and he knew his place.

“You must think me the worst sort of blackguard.”

“I think you a coward, Gleb,” she said, with a gentle shrug, as if she was not bothered either way. 

And what hit would strike deeper than one of indifference, rather he would have braved her disgust than not even be worth an infliction of feeling.

“No harsher sentence could be given,” Gleb confessed plainly, wanting to be humbled, if there was mercy to be had.

“A traitor, I’d imagine. But only of your sensibilities. And you don’t seem much invested in those.”

“Disparage me on it all, but never that.”

“It’s settled then,” Anya decreed. “The coward and the fraud, how droll.”

Gleb fell silent for a moment, staring at the outline of her face, admiring how the gentle curve could house such resilience, knowing it was needed to survive the likes of him. “Where will you go?”

“Some other bridge on the horizon, surely.”

“This flippancy does not become you.”

Anya laughed at him then, a broken sound. “It’s strange, you see. A man can meet a woman, learn her name and imagine a whole life for her. And stranger still, how one can be made to invent oneself entirely.”

She let go of the pole, standing proud and assured. Hair glinting in shades of copper where the light hit, tangling in the wind, and her eyes had darkened to the blue of a summer storm. If he doubted the validity of her claim, now she seemed to embody the coldness of royalty.

Gleb offered his hand, but she snubbed him and jumped down on the stones with practiced ease.

“Don’t be angry,” Anya told him, as she turned to him, and she had to look up at him again. For whatever had happened, she treasured their meeting, where his hands had been warm, and his offer had been the kindest she received in all of Petersburg. “I liked myself better when we met, but we cannot go into the past.”

They stared at each other, too unsure on where the past had its borders.

“Anya,” Gleb said at last, with some hesitance, fighting against every instinct that told him to hold his tongue, but if could not have her, this should make up for some of the loss. “You should not leave without saying goodbye to those vagabonds. Don’t live with regrets.”

She looked at him oddly, but some tension seemed to leave her. “But this is goodbye for us?”

“Russia is waiting for my return.”

Anya smiled, the first genuine reflection of happiness. “Give her my regards.”

Gleb had been gazing upon her, but merely nodded, for there were many things on his heart, that he could not speak.

Anya picked up her bag, and likewise seemed to hesitate before him, but something recoiled in her all the same.

“Go,” Gleb ordered, and she shot away from him, and that was the last of it.

Resurrection, how fitting it could have been, but the newspapers did not ever mention her, and the dark fairytale would live on. The Dowager Empress Marie ceased her search however, and Gleb had his suspicions, and he also had his hopes.

And Anya, well, she found her family, and with it, a home. But there were times she doubted her mind, and there were times she screamed herself awake at nightmares she could not fully remember, and that even the melody of the music box would seem to haunt her. And it was only in the very rarest of times, that she wondered if to not remember had been the kinder option after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. I'm sorry, Gleb.


End file.
